Kitabı oku: «Gullible's Travels, Etc.», sayfa 3
Acrost on the other side o' the stage from where they go off they's a bungalow, and out of it comes Flora and another o' the kings, a young fella with a tenor voice named Veto. They sing about what a fine mornin' it is in Wop and she tells him he'd better fly his kite before Archibald catches him.
It seems like she's married to Archibald's son, Fred, but o' course she likes Veto better or it wouldn't be no op'ra. Her and Veto was raised in the same ward and they was oncet engaged to be married, but Archibald's gang trimmed Veto's in a big roughhouse one night and Flora was part o' the spoils. When Archibald seen how good she could fix spaghett' he was bound she'd stick in the family, so he give her the choice o' bein' killed or marryin' his boy, so she took Fred but didn't really mean it in earnest. So Veto hangs round the house a lot, because old Archibald's blind and Fred's generally always on the road with the Erie section gang.
But old Archibald's eyes bein' no good, his ears is so much the better, even if he don't sometimes keep with the orchestra, so he comes back on the stage just after Veto's went and he hears Flora tryin' to snoop back in her bungalow.
"Who was you talkin' to?" he says.
"Myself," says Flora.
"Great stuff!" says Archibald. "Up and outdoors at five A.M. to talk to yourself! Feed that to the goldfish!"
So she ain't got him fooled for a minute, but w'ile they're arguin' Fred blows in. So Archibald don't say nothin' about his superstition because he ain't sure, so Fred and his Missus goes in the bungalow to have breakfast and Archibald stays on the stage quarrelin' with the conductor.
If Fred was eatin' all through the intermission, he must of been as hungry as me, because it was plain forty minutes before the second act begin. Him and Flora comes out o' their house and Fred says he's got to go right away again because they's a bad wash-out this side o' Huntington. He ain't no sooner gone than Veto's back on the job, but Flora's kind o' sorry for her husbun', and Veto don't get the reception that a star ought to expect.
"Why don't you smile at me?" he says.
So she says:
"It don't seem proper, dearie, with a husbun' on the Erie."
But before long she can't resist his high notes and the next five or ten minutes is a love scene between the two, and they was a couple o' times when I thought the management would ring down the asbestos curtain. Finally old Archibald snoops back on the stage with Flamingo, and Veto runs, but Archie hears him and it's good night. The old boy gives Flora the third degree and she owns up, and then Flamingo says that Fred's comin' back to get his dinner pail. So Archibald insists on knowin' the fella's name that he heard him runnin' away, but Flora's either forgot it or else she's stubborn, so Archie looses his temper and wrings her neck. So when Fred arrives he gets the su'prise of his life and finds out he's a widow.
"I slayed her," says Archibald. "She wasn't no good."
"She was the best cook we ever had," says Fred. "What was the matter with her?"
"She had a gentleman friend," says his old man.
Well, so far, they's only one dead and nothin' original about how it was pulled. You can go over to the Victoria and see any number o' throttlin's at fifty cents for the best seats. So it was up to the management to get a wallop into the last act. It took them pretty near forty minutes to think of it, but it was good when it come.
The scene is Colosimo's undertakin' rooms and Flora's ruins is laid out on the counter. All the Wops from her ward stand round singin' gospel hymns.
When they've beat it Veto approaches the bier bar and wastes some pretty fair singin' on the late Flora. Then all of a sudden he leans over and gives her a kiss. That's all for Veto. You see, Old Fox Archibald had figured that the bird that loved her would pull somethin' like this and he'd doped out a way to learn who he was and make him regret it at the same time, besides springin' some bran'-new stuff in the killin' line. So he's mixed up some rat poison and garlic and spread it on the lips of his fair daughter-in-law.
W'ile Veto's dyin' Fred comes in and finds him.
"So it was you, was it?" he says.
"I'm the guy," says Veto.
"Well," says Fred, "this'll learn you a lesson, you old masher, you!"
"I'll mash you in a minute," says Veto, but the way he was now, he couldn't of mashed turnips.
"I kissed her last, anyway," says Veto.
"You think you did!" says Fred, and helps himself to the garlic.
So Veto's dead and Fred's leanin' over the counter, dyin', when Archibald wabbles in. He finds his way up to Fred and grabs a hold of him, thinkin' it's the stranger.
"Lay off'n me, pa," says Fred. "This ain't the other bird. He's dead and it's got me, too."
"Well," says the old man, "that'd ought to satisfy them. But it's pretty tough on the Erie."
"How grand!" says Bess when it was over.
"But it leaves you with a bad taste," says Bishop.
"And a big appetite," I says.
"Did that old man kill them all?" ast the Missus.
"All but hisself and Flamingo," says I.
"What was he mad at?" says she.
"He was drove crazy by hunger," I says. "His wife and his sister-in-law and her fella was starvin' him to death."
"Bein' blind, he prob'ly spilled things at table," says the Missus. "Blind men sometimes has trouble gettin' their food."
"The trouble ain't confined to the blind," says I.
When we got outside I left Bess and Bishop lead the way, hopin' they'd head to'rds a steak garage.
"No hurry about gettin' home," I hollered to them. "The night's still young yet."
Bishop turned round.
"Is they any good eatin' places out by your place?" he says.
I thought I had him.
"Not as good as down-town," says I, and I named the Loop restaurants.
"How's the car service after midnight?" he says.
"Grand!" says I. "All night long."
I wondered where he would take us. Him and Bess crossed the avenue and stopped where the crowd was waitin' for south-bound cars.
"He's got some favorite place a ways south," says the Missus.
A car come and I and her clumb aboard. We looked back just in time to see Bessie and Bishop wavin' us farewell.
"They missed the car," says the Missus.
"Yes," I says, "and they was just as anxious to catch it as if it'd been the leprosy."
"Never mind," says the Missus. "If he wants to be alone with her it's a good sign."
"I can't eat a sign," says I.
"We'll stop at The Ideal and have a little supper of our own," she says.
"We won't," says I.
"Why not?" says the Missus.
"Because," I says, "they's exactly thirty-five cents in my pocket. And offerin' my stomach seventeen and a half cents' worth o' food now would be just about like sendin' one blank cartridge to the Russian army."
"I think they's some crackers in the house," she says.
"Prob'ly," says I. "We're usually that way – overstocked. You don't seem to realize that our household goods is only insured for a thousand."
About one o'clock I went to sleep from sheer weakness. About one-thirty the Missus shook me and woke me up.
"We win, Joe!" she says, all excited. "I think Bishop and Bess is engaged!"
"Win!" says I. "Say, if you was a Frenchman you'd have a big celebration every anniversary o' the Battle o' Waterloo."
"I was goin' out in the kitchen to get a drink," she says. "Bess was home, but I didn't know it. And when I was comin' back from the kitchen I happened to glance in the livin'-room. And I seen Bishop kiss her! Isn't it great!"
"Yes," I says. "But I wisht she'd of had Archibald fix up her lips."
GULLIBLE'S TRAVELS
I
I promised the Wife that if anybody ast me what kind of a time did I have at Palm Beach I'd say I had a swell time. And if they ast me who did we meet I'd tell 'em everybody that was worth meetin'. And if they ast me didn't the trip cost a lot I'd say Yes; but it was worth the money. I promised her I wouldn't spill none o' the real details. But if you can't break a promise you made to your own wife what kind of a promise can you break? Answer me that, Edgar.
I'm not one o' these kind o' people that'd keep a joke to themself just because the joke was on them. But they's plenty of our friends that I wouldn't have 'em hear about it for the world. I wouldn't tell you, only I know you're not the village gossip and won't crack it to anybody. Not even to your own Missus, see? I don't trust no women.
It was along last January when I and the Wife was both hit by the society bacillus. I think it was at the opera. You remember me tellin' you about us and the Hatches goin' to Carmen and then me takin' my Missus and her sister, Bess, and four of one suit named Bishop to see The Three Kings? Well, I'll own up that I enjoyed wearin' the soup and fish and minglin' amongst the high polloi and pretendin' we really was somebody. And I know my wife enjoyed it, too, though they was nothin' said between us at the time.
The next stage was where our friends wasn't good enough for us no more. We used to be tickled to death to spend an evenin' playin' rummy with the Hatches. But all of a sudden they didn't seem to be no fun in it and when Hatch'd call up we'd stall out of it. From the number o' times I told him that I or the Missus was tired out and goin' right to bed, he must of thought we'd got jobs as telephone linemen.
We quit attendin' pitcher shows because the rest o' the audience wasn't the kind o' people you'd care to mix with. We didn't go over to Ben's and dance because they wasn't no class to the crowd there. About once a week we'd beat it to one o' the good hotels down-town, all dressed up like a horse, and have our dinner with the rest o' the E-light. They wasn't nobody talked to us only the waiters, but we could look as much as we liked and it was sport tryin' to guess the names o' the gang at the next table.
Then we took to readin' the society news at breakfast. It used to be that I didn't waste time on nothin' but the market and sportin' pages, but now I pass 'em up and listen w'ile the Missus rattled off what was doin' on the Lake Shore Drive.
Every little w'ile we'd see where So-and-So was at Palm Beach or just goin' there or just comin' back'. We got to kiddin' about it.
"Well," I'd say, "we'd better be startin' pretty soon or we'll miss the best part o' the season."
"Yes," the Wife'd say back, "we'd go right now if it wasn't for all them engagements next week."
We kidded and kidded till finally, one night, she forgot we was just kiddin'.
"You didn't take no vacation last summer," she says.
"No," says I. "They wasn't no chance to get away."
"But you promised me," she says, "that you'd take one this winter to make up for it."
"I know I did," I says; "but it'd be a sucker play to take a vacation in weather like this."
"The weather ain't like this everywheres," she says.
"You must of been goin' to night school," I says.
"Another thing you promised me," says she, "was that when you could afford it you'd take me on a real honeymoon trip to make up for the dinky one we had."
"That still goes," I says, "when I can afford it."
"You can afford it now," says she. "We don't owe nothin' and we got money in the bank."
"Yes," I says. "Pretty close to three hundred bucks."
"You forgot somethin'," she says. "You forgot them war babies."
Did I tell you about that? Last fall I done a little dabblin' in Crucial Steel and at this time I'm tellin' you about I still had a hold of it, but stood to pull down six hundred. Not bad, eh?
"It'd be a mistake to let loose now," I says.
"All right," she says. "Hold on, and I hope you lose every cent. You never did care nothin' for me."
Then we done a little spoonin' and then I ast her what was the big idear.
"We ain't swelled on ourself," she says; "but I know and you know that the friends we been associatin' with ain't in our class. They don't know how to dress and they can't talk about nothin' but their goldfish and their meat bills. They don't try to get nowheres, but all they do is play rummy and take in the Majestic. I and you like nice people and good music and things that's worth w'ile. It's a crime for us to be wastin' our time with riff and raff that'd run round barefooted if it wasn't for the police."
"I wouldn't say we'd wasted much time on 'em lately," I says.
"No," says she, "and I've had a better time these last three weeks than I ever had in my life."
"And you can keep right on havin' it," I says.
"I could have a whole lot better time, and you could, too," she says, "if we could get acquainted with some congenial people to go round with; people that's tastes is the same as ourn."
"If any o' them people calls up on the phone," I says, "I'll be as pleasant to 'em as I can."
"You're always too smart," says the Wife. "You don't never pay attention to no schemes o' mine."
"What's the scheme now?"
"You'll find fault with it because I thought it up," she says. "If it was your scheme you'd think it was grand."
"If it really was good you wouldn't be scared to spring it," I says.
"Will you promise to go through with it?" says she.
"If it ain't too ridic'lous," I told her.
"See! I knowed that'd be the way," she says.
"Don't talk crazy," I says. "Where'd we be if we'd went through with every plan you ever sprang?"
"Will you promise to listen to my side of it without actin' cute?" she says.
So I didn't see no harm in goin' that far.
"I want you to take me to Palm Beach," says she. "I want you to take a vacation, and that's where we'll spend it."
"And that ain't all we'd spend," I says.
"Remember your promise," says she.
So I shut up and listened.
The dope she give me was along these lines: We could get special round-trip rates on any o' the railroads and that part of it wouldn't cost nowheres near as much as a man'd naturally think. The hotel rates was pretty steep, but the meals was throwed in, and just imagine what them meals would be! And we'd be stayin' under the same roof with the Vanderbilts and Goulds, and eatin' at the same table, and probably, before we was there a week, callin' 'em Steve and Gus. They was dancin' every night and all the guests danced with each other, and how would it feel fox-trottin' with the president o' the B. & O., or the Delmonico girls from New York! And all Chicago society was down there, and when we met 'em we'd know 'em for life and have some real friends amongst 'em when we got back home.
That's how she had it figured and she must of been practisin' her speech, because it certainly did sound good to me. To make it short, I fell, and dated her up to meet me down-town the next day and call on the railroad bandits. The first one we seen admitted that his was the best route and that he wouldn't only soak us one hundred and forty-seven dollars and seventy cents to and from Palm Beach and back, includin' an apartment from here to Jacksonville and as many stop-overs as we wanted to make. He told us we wouldn't have to write for no hotel accommodations because the hotels had an agent right over on Madison Street that'd be glad to do everything to us.
So we says we'd be back later and then we beat it over to the Florida East Coast's local studio.
"How much for a double room by the week?" I ast the man.
"They ain't no weekly rates," he says. "By the day it'd be twelve dollars and up for two at the Breakers, and fourteen dollars and up at the Poinciana."
"I like the Breakers better," says I.
"You can't get in there," he says. "They're full for the season."
"That's a long spree," I says.
"Can we get in the other hotel?" ast the Wife.
"I can find out," says the man.
"We want a room with bath," says she.
"That'd be more," says he. "That'd be fifteen dollars or sixteen dollars and up."
"What do we want of a bath," I says, "with the whole Atlantic Ocean in the front yard?"
"I'm afraid you'd have trouble gettin' a bath," says the man. "The hotels is both o' them pretty well filled up on account o' the war in Europe."
"What's that got to do with it?" I ast him.
"A whole lot," he says. "The people that usually goes abroad is all down to Palm Beach this winter."
"I don't see why," I says. "If one o' them U-boats hit 'em they'd at least be gettin' their bath for nothin'."
We left him with the understandin' that he was to wire down there and find out what was the best they could give us. We called him up in a couple o' days and he told us we could have a double room, without no bath, at the Poinciana, beginnin' the fifteenth o' February. He didn't know just what the price would be.
Well, I fixed it up to take my vacation startin' the tenth, and sold out my Crucial Steel, and divided the spoils with the railroad company. We decided we'd stop off in St. Augustine two days, because the Missus found out somewheres that they might be two or three o' the Four Hundred lingerin' there, and we didn't want to miss nobody.
"Now," I says, "all we got to do is set round and wait for the tenth o' the month."
"Is that so!" says the Wife. "I suppose you're perfectly satisfied with your clo'es."
"I've got to be," I says, "unless the Salvation Army has somethin' that'll fit me."
"What's the matter with our charge account?" she says.
"I don't like to charge nothin'," I says, "when I know they ain't no chance of ever payin' for it."
"All right," she says, "then we're not goin' to Palm Beach. I'd rather stay home than go down there lookin' like general housework."
"Do you need clo'es yourself?" I ast her.
"I certainly do," she says. "About two hundred dollars' worth. But I got one hundred and fifty dollars o' my own."
"All right," I says. "I'll stand for the other fifty and then we're all set."
"No, we're not," she says. "That just fixes me. But I want you to look as good as I do."
"Nature'll see to that," I says.
But they was no arguin' with her. Our trip, she says, was an investment; it was goin' to get us in right with people worth w'ile. And we wouldn't have a chance in the world unless we looked the part.
So before the tenth come round, we was long two new evenin' gowns, two female sport suits, four or five pairs o' shoes, all colors, one Tuxedo dinner coat, three dress shirts, half a dozen other kinds o' shirts, two pairs o' transparent white trousers, one new business suit and Lord knows how much underwear and how many hats and stockin's. And I had till the fifteenth o' March to pay off the mortgage on the old homestead.
Just as we was gettin' ready to leave for the train the phone rung. It was Mrs. Hatch and she wanted us to come over for a little rummy. I was shavin' and the Missus done the talkin'.
"What did you tell her?" I ast.
"I told her we was goin' away," says the Wife.
"I bet you forgot to mention where we was goin'," I says.
"Pay me," says she.
II
I thought we was in Venice when we woke up next mornin', but the porter says it was just Cairo, Illinois. The river'd went crazy and I bet they wasn't a room without a bath in that old burg.
As we set down in the diner for breakfast the train was goin' acrost the longest bridge I ever seen, and it looked like we was so near the water that you could reach right out and grab a handful. The Wife was a little wabbly.
"I wonder if it's really safe," she says.
"If the bridge stays up we're all right," says I.
"But the question is, Will it stay up?" she says.
"I wouldn't bet a nickel either way on a bridge," I says. "They're treacherous little devils. They'd cross you as quick as they'd cross this river."
"The trainmen must be nervous," she says. "Just see how we're draggin' along."
"They're givin' the fish a chance to get off en the track," I says. "It's against the law to spear fish with a cowcatcher this time o' year."
Well, the Wife was so nervous she couldn't eat nothin' but toast and coffee, so I figured I was justified in goin' to the prunes and steak and eggs.
After breakfast we went out in what they call the sun parlor. It was a glassed-in room on the tail-end o' the rear coach and it must of been a pleasant place to set and watch the scenery. But they was a gang o' missionaries or somethin' had all the seats and they never budged out o' them all day. Every time they'd come to a crossroads they'd toss a stack o' Bible studies out o' the back window for the southern heathen to pick up and read. I suppose they thought they was doin' a lot o' good for their fellow men, but their fellow passengers meanw'ile was gettin' the worst of it.
Speakin' o' the scenery, it certainly was somethin' grand. First we'd pass a few pine trees with fuzz on 'em and then a couple o' acres o' yellow mud. Then they'd be more pine trees and more fuzz and then more yellow mud. And after a w'ile we'd come to some pine trees with fuzz on 'em and then, if we watched close, we'd see some yellow mud.
Every few minutes the train'd stop and then start up again on low. That meant the engineer suspected he was comin' to a station and was scared that if he run too fast he wouldn't see it, and if he run past it without stoppin' the inhabitants wouldn't never forgive him. You see, they's a regular schedule o' duties that's followed out by the more prominent citizens down those parts. After their wife's attended to the chores and got the breakfast they roll out o' bed and put on their overalls and eat. Then they get on their horse or mule or cow or dog and ride down to the station and wait for the next train. When it comes they have a contest to see which can count the passengers first. The losers has to promise to work one day the followin' month. If one fella loses three times in the same month he generally always kills himself.
All the towns has got five or six private residences and seven or eight two-apartment buildin's and a grocery and a post-office. They told me that somebody in one o' them burgs, I forget which one, got a letter the day before we come through. It was misdirected, I guess.
The two-apartment buildin's is constructed on the ground floor, with a porch to divide one flat from the other. One's the housekeepin' side and the other's just a place for the husband and father to lay round in so's they won't be disturbed by watchin' the women work.
It was a blessin' to them boys when their states went dry. Just think what a strain it must of been to keep liftin' glasses and huntin' in their overalls for a dime!
In the afternoon the Missus went into our apartment and took a nap and I moseyed into the readin'-room and looked over some o' the comical magazines. They was a fat guy come in and set next to me. I'd heard him, in at lunch, tellin' the dinin'-car conductor what Wilson should of done, so I wasn't su'prised when he opened up on me.
"Tiresome trip," he says.
I didn't think it was worth w'ile arguin' with him.
"Must of been a lot o' rain through here," he says.
"Either that," says I, "or else the sprinklin' wagon run shy o' streets."
He laughed as much as it was worth.
"Where do you come from?" he ast me.
"Dear old Chicago," I says.
"I'm from St. Louis," he says.
"You're frank," says I.
"I'm really as much at home one place as another," he says. "The Wife likes to travel and why shouldn't I humor her?"
"I don't know," I says. "I haven't the pleasure."
"Seems like we're goin' all the w'ile," says he. "It's Hot Springs or New Orleans or Florida or Atlantic City or California or somewheres."
"Do you get passes?" I ast him.
"I guess I could if I wanted to," he says. "Some o' my best friends is way up in the railroad business."
"I got one like that," I says. "He generally stands on the fourth or fifth car behind the engine."
"Do you travel much?" he ast me.
"I don't live in St. Louis," says I.
"Is this your first trip south?" he ast.
"Oh, no," I says. "I live on Sixty-fifth Street."
"I meant, have you ever been down this way before?"
"Oh, yes," says I. "I come down every winter."
"Where do you go?" he ast.
That's what I was layin' for.
"Palm Beach," says I.
"I used to go there," he says. "But I've cut it out. It ain't like it used to be. They leave everybody in now."
"Yes," I says; "but a man don't have to mix up with 'em."
"You can't just ignore people that comes up and talks to you," he says.
"Are you bothered that way much?" I ast.
"It's what drove me away from Palm Beach," he says.
"How long since you been there?" I ast him.
"How long you been goin' there?" he says.
"Me?" says I. "Five years."
"We just missed each other," says he. "I quit six years ago this winter."
"Then it couldn't of been there I seen you," says I. "But I know I seen you somewheres before."
"It might of been most anywheres," he says. "They's few places I haven't been at."
"Maybe it was acrost the pond," says I.
"Very likely," he says. "But not since the war started. I been steerin' clear of Europe for two years."
"So have I, for longer'n that," I says.
"It's certainly an awful thing, this war," says he.
"I believe you're right," says I; "but I haven't heard nobody express it just that way before."
"I only hope," he says, "that we succeed in keepin' out of it."
"If we got in, would you go?" I ast him.
"Yes, sir," he says.
"You wouldn't beat me," says I. "I bet I'd reach Brazil as quick as you."
"Oh, I don't think they'd be any action in South America," he says. "We'd fight defensive at first and most of it would be along the Atlantic Coast."
"Then maybe we could get accommodations in Yellowstone Park," says I.
"They's no sense in this country gettin' involved," he says. "Wilson hasn't handled it right. He either ought to of went stronger or not so strong. He's wrote too many notes."
"You certainly get right to the root of a thing," says I. "You must of thought a good deal about it."
"I know the conditions pretty well," he says. "I know how far you can go with them people over there. I been amongst 'em a good part o' the time."
"I suppose," says I, "that a fella just naturally don't like to butt in. But if I was you I'd consider it my duty to romp down to Washington and give 'em all the information I had."
"Wilson picked his own advisers," says he. "Let him learn his lesson."
"That ain't hardly fair," I says. "Maybe you was out o' town, or your phone was busy or somethin'."
"I don't know Wilson nor he don't know me," he says.
"That oughtn't to stop you from helpin' him out," says I. "If you seen a man drownin' would you wait for some friend o' the both o' you to come along and make the introduction?"
"They ain't no comparison in them two cases," he says. "Wilson ain't never called on me for help."
"You don't know if he has or not," I says. "You don't stick in one place long enough for a man to reach you."
"My office in St. Louis always knows where I'm at," says he. "My stenographer can reach me any time within ten to twelve hours."
"I don't think it's right to have this country's whole future dependin' on a St. Louis stenographer," I says.
"That's nonsense!" says he. "I ain't makin' no claim that I could save or not save this country. But if I and Wilson was acquainted I might tell him some facts that'd help him out in his foreign policy."
"Well, then," I says, "it's up to you to get acquainted. I'd introduce you myself only I don't know your name."
"My name's Gould," says he; "but you're not acquainted with Wilson."
"I could be, easy," says I. "I could get on a train he was goin' somewheres on and then go and set beside him and begin to talk. Lots o' people make friends that way."
It was gettin' along to'rd supper-time, so I excused myself and went back to the apartment. The Missus had woke up and wasn't feelin' good.
"What's the matter?" I ast her.
"This old train," she says. "I'll die if it don't stop goin' round them curves."
"As long as the track curves, the best thing the train can do is curve with it," I says. "You may die if it keeps curvin', but you'd die a whole lot sooner if it left the rails and went straight ahead."
"What you been doin'?" she ast me.
"Just talkin' to one o' the Goulds," I says.
"Gould!" she says. "What Gould?"
"Well," I says, "I didn't ask him his first name, but he's from St. Louis, so I suppose it's Ludwig or Heinie."
"Oh," she says, disgusted. "I thought you meant one o' the real ones."
"He's a real one, all right," says I. "He's so classy that he's passed up Palm Beach. He says it's gettin' too common."
"I don't believe it," says the Wife. "And besides, we don't have to mix up with everybody."
"He says they butt right in on you," I told her.
"They'll get a cold reception from me," she says.
But between the curves and the fear o' Palm Beach not bein' so exclusive as it used to be, she couldn't eat no supper, and I had another big meal.
The next mornin' we landed in Jacksonville three hours behind time and narrowly missed connections for St. Augustine by over an hour and a half. They wasn't another train till one-thirty in the afternoon, so we had some time to kill. I went shoppin' and bought a shave and five or six rickeys. The Wife helped herself to a chair in the writin'-room of one o' the hotels and told pretty near everybody in Chicago that she wished they was along with us, accompanied by a pitcher o' the Elks' Home or the Germania Club, or Trout Fishin' at Atlantic Beach.
W'ile I was gettin' my dime's worth in the tonsorial parlors, I happened to look up at a calendar on the wall, and noticed it was the twelfth o' February.
"How does it come that everything's open here to-day?" I says to the barber. "Don't you-all know it's Lincoln's birthday?"
"Is that so?" he says. "How old is he?"
